


Like an Old Time Ballad Gone Wrong

by irrelevant



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Old West
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-02
Updated: 2010-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevant/pseuds/irrelevant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not the way it should be, just the way it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like an Old Time Ballad Gone Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> For tonko_ni, who wanted AU Smoker/Ace, and gave me cowboy as a prompt. Yeah, my brain went there.

His mama named him Ace, which fits, seeing as he is one. If he’s on the other end of the gun barrel you’re staring down, you better start praying because running ain’t gonna do you much good.

The no-account crowd he runs with calls him Fire Fist. The nickname popped after an incident involving a bottle of tequila, Mayor Iceburg’s favorite roan, and a handful of stolen fireworks. The horse disappeared in an explosion of red, white and blue. The name stuck. By now, most of the county’s forgotten he ever had a different one.

Half of East Blue calls him a damn good joke. The other half calls him That No-Good D, same as it does his brother, his dad and his granddad. They’re hell-raisers, the Ds, every Monkey’s son of ‘em. To hear some tell it, he’s the worst of the lot. According to others, he’s the best.

And maybe there's just not much to chose between the two.

The doves at Rogue Town’s Gilded Lily say he’s the hottest thing this side of the Rio Grande. The cattlemen who drift into town of a weekend call him a flash son of a bitch when he’s not around, and keep their mouths shut when he is. To every lawman within a fifty mile radius of Rogue Town he’s the bastard who always gets away. As for Rogue Town’s sheriff, well, Smoker calls the kid a lot of things, most of them unfit for company ears. But today he's safely handcuffed to Smoker’s desk and not out making trouble, so he’s just, “Portgas.”

He pushes the brim of his black hat up and opens one eye. "Yeah?"

Smoker flips to the next in a stack of Wanted notices. “You want to tell me why Bellamy’s morons are bleeding all over my cells?”

“Don’t know what you mean, Sheriff.”

“What I mean,” says Smoker, “is that I’ve got ten concussed jackasses, a smashed saloon, and no explanation.”

Portgas drops his hat back down over his eyes and settles himself more comfortably against Smoker’s desk. “Why don’t you ask them? I was just having a drink.”

“Sell it to someone who’ll buy it. I know Roronoa’s laid up in Doc Kureha’s spare room. I also know an exit wound when I see it. That slug went in at his back, not out.”

Smoker is watching Portgas from the corner of his eye and he sees his hands clench briefly into fists before relaxing, fingers uncurling. Portgas lays his open palms on his bent knees and tilts his head back, looking at Smoker from under his hat brim.

“Guess I’m not the one you need to be talking to,” he says quietly. “Luffy can handle his own problems just fine.”

“Never said he couldn’t. Doesn’t mean someone else wouldn’t step in if the opportunity came along.”

Pushing his chair away from the desk, Smoker pulls a cigar from the inner pocket of his coat. He takes his time clipping and lighting it, and sucks in a slow in a mouthful of smoke. Exhales and does it again.

“Give me a reason to hold these guys. Otherwise, they wake up, they’re gone. I've got nothing on them but drunk and disorderly. For you, I’ve got twenty eyewitnesses for self-defense. And,” Smoker drawls sarcastically, “they’re all either Straw Hats or old man Newgate’s boys. Never mind that some of them were ten miles out of town when it went down.”

“Oi, who’re you calling old man, old man?” Portgas demands, affronted. “Mister Edward’s a good guy!”

The corners of Smoker’s mouth twitch. “Kid, I'm not arguing with you. Ed’s a friend of mine, you know that. I’ve still got no clue how you talked one of the smartest men I know into hiring you on, or why he seems to think you’re the closest thing to Jesus since the crucifixion, but eventually even Ed’ll get tired of hauling your ass out of the fire.”

Portgas has the weirdest half-smile on his freckled face. “Well then I’ll just have to throw myself on your mercy… won’t I?”

He shoves away from Smoker's desk, curling himself upwards until he’s on his knees. Then he bends forward, resting his elbows on Smoker’s thighs. The bony points of them dig into Smoker’s flesh, and the kid grins at him like he knows just how uncomfortable his proximity makes Smoker.

Smoker’s jaw clenches, his teeth clamping down on his cigar. Portgas’s hands slide slowly up Smoker’s thighs, the tips of his fingers digging in slightly. His fingernails catch on the denim of Smoker’s jeans, the friction of it scraping Smoker’s skin beneath the heavy material, and Smoker’s breath catches on the constriction of his throat. He forces the air out, forces himself not to react. Forces himself to keep looking at Portgas’s face instead of his hands. “Bribery or blackmail, brat? Either way that’s low, even for you.”

“Trust me, Sheriff,” Portgas grins, pressing his palms into the muscle of Smoker’s inner thighs, “if this was blackmail, I wouldn’t be the one on my knees. And if it was bribery, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

Portgas reaches up, _leans_ up, his breath hot against Smoker’s face, and takes the cigar from Smoker’s mouth. Drops it into the overflowing ashtray on Smoker’s desk. “Wouldn’t have to ask,” he murmurs. “Because yeah, I’d still be on my knees, but this’d be a whole different angle for both of us.”

That goddamned grin—Smoker’s sure it’ll be the death of him one of these days. Portgas is too close, the heat of him branding Smoker’s skin, and Smoker’s thoughts scatter, burning down to nothing. Portgas’s mouth brushes Smoker’s mouth. His eyes are still open.

He’s looking straight at Smoker, a spark of challenge deep in his eyes, and shit, Smoker told himself this wasn’t going to happen, not again. But damn it, it is happening. Because although Smoker has never had any trouble resisting blackmail _or_ bribery, he’s never been able to tell Portgas no.

He has to try, though, and he opens his mouth to do it, but then Portgas’s tongue flicks his upper lip. And just like that Smoker has a hand around the back of Portgas’s neck, yanking the kid closer, and they’re doing their damnedest to eat each other alive. And just like every other time, like every other kiss from this hell-spawned brat, it’s worth-going-to-hell good.

Because this, Portgas—pressed up against Smoker, all bony male edges, hard cock and demanding mouth—this is something Smoker can’t get from any woman. Something he doesn’t want from any woman: never has, and he never will.

It’s wrong, or at least that’s what Smoker’s preacher father used to say, and Smoker doesn’t kid himself thinking that the rest of the world wouldn’t agree with the old bastard. But with all the shit Smoker’s seen and done and waded through in his thirty-three years, he’s never seen anything to make him believe that even if God does exist, he gives a damn one way or another about what humanity gets up to in its spare time.

As far as this thing with Portgas goes, it’s far from the worst either of them has done. If Portgas wants to crawl through Smoker’s window at night, or even crawl into Smoker’s lap in his office at midday, Smoker doesn’t see that it’s hurting anybody, much less the pair of them. Except that Portgas _shouldn’t_ be able to crawl into Smoker’s lap. He’s chained to Smoker’s desk and the chain isn’t long enough, but that’s where he is at the moment—thighs spread wide over Smoker’s legs, grinding against him.

“The hell are you doing now?”

Portgas falls away laughing, rests his forehead against Smoker’s forehead. One of his hands grips Smoker’s shoulder; he raises the other between them, displaying the friction-shined key to his cuff. “You should change your hiding places, old man. Even Foxy’s gang’s gotta know you keep this in your right hip pocket.”

Smoker drops his head back against his chair and closes his eyes. His hand is still curved around Portgas’s hip—he leaves it there. “One of these days, brat.”

“Yeah, that’s what you always say.”

Smoker’s eyes snap open. He moves before Portgas can, grabbing a handful of black hair and yanking Portgas down until there are bare inches between them. He searches Portgas’s dark eyes, not sure what he’s looking for, but all he sees is laughter. Laughter… and something else Smoker refuses to name.

“Too cocky for your own good,” he finally says.

“Born to hang,” Portgas agrees. “Just like Roger.”

Smoker doesn’t want to think about that. Doesn’t want to hear Portgas’s flip remarks on the only D who managed to get himself caught in a noose of his own making, so he growls an angry, “_Shut up_,” into Portgas’s mouth and kisses him again.

Kisses him hard and ruthless, taking what he wants. What he needs. He marks Portgas with his want, lets the kid crawl all over him, rub up against him. For once lets himself feel how good it is.

Every time it comes down to this, to them, he ends up thinking that this is the time Portgas will drive him the rest of the way to crazy and then he'll do it. He'll take the kid right here, fuck him into next week and to hell with anyone who tries to stop him. And he would, just for himself. Pay his own price his own way. But it wouldn’t be just him paying, would it? And that thought stops him every time.

Smoker shoves Portgas off of him. The kid stumbles backwards into Smoker’s desk and sprawls there, panting. Drapes himself across paperwork and Wanted notices, spreads himself over the minutiae of Smoker’s life like a half-wrapped gift that’s just begging to get opened.

“All you gotta do is say no, old man. I can take a hint.” Portgas's eyes are half open. His mouth is a bruised invitation. An invitation Smoker isn’t going to take.

“Get your ass off my intel and get gone. I've got work to do. And give me that key.”

Portgas throws his bare head back and laughs out loud. The cord of his hat is a dark slash against his tanned flesh, and for an instant Smoker sees blood-heavy bruises and rope marks in its place; deep, disfiguring, digging almost all the way through skin to the muscle and tendon beneath.

Smoker looks away. Twenty years ago he stood in Rogue Town’s square for Roger D. Gol’s hanging. He’s not going to do the same for Portgas. “You deaf or something? Get going before I throw you in with Bellamy’s lot.”

Portgas’s laughter trails slowly away. “Charming as always,” he says, and pushes himself off the desk.

He leans down to retrieve his hat from the floor, tossing Smoker the key as he straightens. “I gotta head out anyway—got business with Teach. Been picking off our cattle for trespassing on his water rights, even though it’s Newgate land.”

Smoker knows better but... “Leave Teach alone. He’s bad news.”

Portgas stops in the doorway, his black duster swirling around him. “Sure is,” he says, and grins. “That’s why I’m gonna kick his ass. I’ll be seeing you, Sheriff.”

The sharp clack of spur rowels on wood echoes down the hall. Smoker hears Portgas’s polite greeting and Tashigi’s flustered response. Hears the thunk of Portgas's Colts on the wood of Tashigi's desk as she pushes them towards him.

Smoker pictures Portgas fastening his gun belt across his hips--low, but not too low. Just enough so that his index fingers tickle cold steel when he drops his arms.

The front door of the Rogue Town Jail bangs shut.

Again.

Smoker leans back in his chair and reaches for a new cigar. He knows Portgas’ll be back. If not for some brawl or minor case of accidental arson, then because he just will.

Maybe this thing between them _is_ wrong. Maybe every preacher starting with Smoker’s fire and brimstone old man, up to and including Rogue Town’s lazy Reverend Ener is right. Maybe. Smoker still can’t make himself regret it.

His lack of remorse doesn’t bother him, either. And he’s pretty sure that’s worse than any so-called sin.


End file.
